Myth Weavers is pleased to announce the Dungeons & Dragons Create a Villain Contest! Members may create a villain using any edition of the Dungeons & Dragons rules, and the final entries will be voted on by the community.

First place wins a new copy of the Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition Players Handbook!

The contest runs from July 1 to July 31, and voting will then run from August 1 through August 7. The winner will be announced on August 8 and contacted via PM. Contest details and directions may be found HERE!

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Like everyone else (so to speak), I'm tainted by Hallowe'en in most everything I do during the month of October. This month's exercise is to convey horror in whatever form you prefer, in 1000 words or less, no minimum. It can be any variety of horror. Gore splattered is just as acceptable as psychological or any other kind. The reader, though, should find themselves thinking it's creepy, gross, disturbing, or some similar sort of adjective along those lines. It can be a person, place, thing, action, situation, or really anything that is horrifying.

I suggest going for a horror type that is outside your personal comfort zone, but that is not at all required. Comments about actual horror value of submissions are welcome, but keep it constructive and explain yourself.

On a side note I just got done with a scene in my game that was commented as being the "most horrific RP scene and likely would stay at the top of the heap for some time". It was good times I had considered rewriting it up for the exercise but it was way more than 1000 words.

I'll go ahead and enter something here that I wrote for one of my current games: Dark Psyche. I had never run a really dark game before and so far it's been really successful. This is just under 1000 words and is a scene depicting.... when things go bad with psychics.

Praxis entered the storefront with great trepidation. It was once a rather reputable used bookstore. Now it's a fire hazard. He looked around at the array of books scattered on the floor. At first glance it looked random, but Praxis could detect a certain order of chaos within the mix. Some books were arrayed in arcane symbols, others stacked impossibly high and still others shredded and mixed with blood and paper mache'd into obscene and macabre vignettes. He picked his way carefully through the mess, stretching his senses out looking for... the familiar.

It was difficult to make out much beyond the book strewn front room, as the only illumination was coming from the streetlights outside. Praxis wondered to himself why these things always had to happen at night. He knew that his old friend John, the proprietor of the bookstore, had been acting quite strange lately. John's psychic abilities had taken an amazing leap forward and his behavior was obsessive and erratic. A week ago he had disappeared, and now Praxis was here on a tip that the store was being robbed. Seeing the strange chaos inside made Praxis think of some things his old mentor had warned him about. Things about control and not reaching too far, too fast. Stories surely meant to terrorize a young disciple that were too silly to be believed. That is why Praxis had no reservation about teaching his friend John to evoke his own latent gifts. That confidence was replaced by a sense of foreboding upon this night's foray into the bookstore.

Fishing for a Maglite out of his jacket, Praxis walks through the employee door. Apparently the book lobby was an art piece, because behind the door was just destruction. Part of the upper floor was collapsed into this one and support members lay around in random heaps of splinters. There was an ominous creaking of wood coming from somewhere above. He picked his way carefully, casting the small light around tying not to touch anything too unstable.

Stepping into what was once a kitchen, Praxis almost missed him. There hunched in the corner was just the glint of a wet set of eyes. It looked like he was laying down staring unblinkingly. The eyes were almost lit with an inner light. Praxis tried to speak but only managed a croak. He tried again, “John, it's me, Praxis... it's Rashid.” Praxis hoped his childhood name would evoke some memory, but the eyes just stared.

A hollow voice carried across the open space lit by the indirect light of the flashlight held limply in Praxis' hand. “I remember you Praxis. Rashid was who you were before you were touched by enlightenment. Enlightenment is transformative... inspiring. You are Praxis. I too have been enlightened... many thanks to you. But my teaching has been taken over by others much more versed in the power of the Otherside. They wish to meet you, to teach you.... to join you.”

John shifted, but instead of the eyes seeming to sit up, they simply rose though still skewed sideways. Praxis took a step back and remembered the flashlight, bringing the powerful little beam up to illuminate the figure in the corner.

Praxis had heard of true possession. The stories made The Exorcist seem like a minor skin condition. The reality before him was far more horrific. A mad intelligence from the Otherside had taken hold of John and inhabited his mind and body. The things from there exist in a different reality with different rules... a truly alien existence. The thing in John was growing into his body and adapting it for its own purposes and to its own tastes with little regard for our reality. John's head was sticking out at a right angle from a twisted spine. One bloated arm stuck straight up in the air, the hand split between the fingers and a milky white eye stared out from the palm. Tiny waving tendrils peeked out from the purple skin around the eye, like the legs of a millipede rowing in motion. One leg had lost all sense of rigidity and flopped around bonelessly, the foot gone and a toothed tentacle bracing itself on the floor as 'John' stood. The other leg had slit in two down its length and the twin appendages braced infront of the creature like those of a mantis, one with two toes and the other with three. The remaining arm was twisted behind planted on the ground, helping to push the twisted and bloated bulk up to it's full height. The belly bulged oddly is if many unspeakable things were going on inside the thing at once. The worst were the eyes.

His eyes stared out of a head that had split from ear to cheek and a rubbery bulge of flesh pulsed irrhythmically from the wound. The mouth was incapable of producing speech anymore, which means that the voice came from somewhere unseen. The eyes did not blink but stared with an intensity that seemed to be a mix of love and hatred and rage and jealousy and admiration all at once. John was feeling everything, all aspects of humanity all simultaneously. It was food for the creature within. John had no fear, for that is what they devour first. John was gone, consumed first by the madness that caused him to allow the possession then by the creature itself.

There was silence in the devastated kitchen, for both knew that there was nothing left to say. Both knew that there could only be violence next followed by death. And both were fairly certain they knew who that would be. The light of the little Maglite sputtered and gave up, surrendering to the darkness unwilling to watch was was to come next.

So here's what I whipped up. Maybe not the most original, but I don't usually do straight up horror, so this was a nice change of pace, especially with All Hallow's Eve coming up. Now I just need to do a monster/serial killer movie marathon and I'll be all set.

I ran from my killer as fast as I could.

Branches whipped by in the darkness, every other one ripping at my face until it was raw, but the stinging pain and blood were lost in the sea of fear and adrenaline as I ran. So, too, did I try to ignore the searing pain in my side where the knife had cut deep. I didn’t have time to feel anything but the fear or think about anything except escape. And so I ran through the darkened forest, the moon my only light.

Several times I stumbled, some rock or low branch or loose root, and came crashing down headfirst in the dirt and sand. Each time, I took precious seconds to look back to see how close my killer was. Each time, he was closer and closer. Were it not for my own quick stab to his leg, he would have gotten to me already, but the wound in my side was much worse and soon I would drop from blood loss. He was so much bigger and stronger. Time was against me and I fought the sense of doom washing over me. I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die! I don’t WANT to die! I fought back the tears, but only barely.

I pushed myself up, spitting out the red clay dirt, bitter, and ran on. How was I going to escape? Where could I go? I didn’t know the forest, didn’t have a clue where I was or where to go. Fear gripped me, and a part of me just wanted to lie down and give up. I was tired of running, of living in constant fear of this man. That’s what he wanted, to look into my eyes and see the fear take root, then completely drown me as I realized what he wanted to do to me. If I just let him end it, it would all end and I wouldn’t be afraid anymore. Would that not be better?

But even as strong as the terror was, it could not override my will to survive. Not yet. And so I ran. I could almost hear him behind me, now. I imagined the knife would stab me at any second, the cold steel slicing through skin and tissue, the pain sharp and sudden. That’s how it had felt in my side, and I kept replaying the feeling over and over again in my mind, the sharp edge of the knife piercing me, violating me, cutting me. I imagined how worse it would feel when he cut me apart, piece by piece. Fingers, hands, feet, flesh and skin, trimmed and dissected like a pig, all while I watched him devour me, one raw bite at a time. The fear surged at the thought, and I ran faster.

Until I stumbled once more and crashed to the ground. My head hit a sharp rock and the world went dizzy. No! I can’t! I can’t stop! I don’t want to die! Not like that! I tried to move my legs but they wouldn’t budge. In my woozy mind, it I dimly realized I had become literally paralyzed with fear. My body was shutting down, refusing to respond to my commands. The tears flowed freely, now, and I yelled at myself to get up, get up, GET UP! Don’t you want to live?!

But it was no use. Through the clearing dizziness, I heard his footsteps approach, fast at first and then suddenly slow when he caught sight of me, a wounded animal, frightened and alone, just waiting for the inevitable end. My heart beat in sheer abject terror, so loud it drowned out all other sounds, but I could still see. I watched as he approached me, eye level with his thick leather boots, worn and stained with brownish-red streaks.

Step-drag.

The dark bloodstain on his left leg glistened in the moonlight, my one act of defiance in my entire short life the reason he stumbled now.

Step-drag.

I saw something else glint, long and bright and metallic in his left hand.

Step-drag.

He loomed over me, a darkened shadow blocking the moon. I looked to see a dark smile cross his lips.

“You gave me a good chase, boy. I’ll enjoy you so much more than the others.”

There was no pity in his eyes, no sympathy, no compassion. That’s when I knew. I cried with no restraint, but there was no one to hear. He knelt down and began sawing at my ankles, to make sure I couldn’t run ever again. I screamed in pain.